


Swings

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-04
Updated: 2005-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts move more slowly in the cold, Bono/Edge, unspecified era. (Pre-1994)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swings

**Author's Note:**

> For Charlie and Bean. This is both of your respective faults. Wenches.

Smoke curls around his fingers, barely moving in the still air. He takes a deep drag, holding it until it starts to hurt, exhaling in a rush, letting his head fall back, leaning against the heavy cold chain. The links nearly burn, just this side of icy, and frost crackles under his heel as he drops the butt, grinding it into the ground with a focus that suggests he's thinking of something else entirely.

With a sigh, Edge drops his hands to his sides, loosely gripping the worn rubber strip he's seated on, leaning back and pushing with his feet, setting himself swinging. Growing bored moments later, he straightens up and shifts, tugging his sleeves down one after the other to cover his hands, warm wool gloving them as he leans well back, feet up and together as he jerks at the chain-links, shifting his bodyweight in the habit learned well in childhood.

"Having fun?"

The voice startles him, head coming up fast, eyes wide and glancing guiltily – this is a playground after all – down at the cigarette butts under his feet, evidence of just how long he's been lost in thought.

"It’s quite relaxing, actually. Five stars, recommending it in the next Zagat's guide, and so on."

He can't quite look at him, still, despite the lightness of his tone, so the first thing that hits his field of vision is the pair of boots nudging their way under his dangling feet, followed closely by the gentle hand cupping his chin.

"Did it help?"

The warm voice trails off, unable to disguise the intensely personal worry colouring the tone. This concerns Bono, intimately, and the fine tremor in his hands (eye-level for Edge, and thus unmissable) is only the most visible sign of the strain of having waited, having held out this long.

"I was expecting you half an hour ago, really." He had been, too. This kind of patience, patience for dealings on such a personal level, is unlike him, and the rawness of his reply has Edge's gaze flying up to meet his right away.

"I wanted to let you have the time you asked for." Sheepish, now, and endearing with it. A glimmer in his eyes to say that he knows it, too. "Sorry, Edge, I just… couldn’t sit in that room any longer."

He quirks a smile, one that bounces between the two of them, growing as the silence deepens and draws out. It's a good silence, Edge has to admit, it's warm. Comfortable.

"This is right," Edge admits, and while it's the polar opposite of what he'd been saying hours ago, there's no censure in Bono's expression, no smugness, no irritation for the stress of the past few hours. Just relief, pure and simple, mixing with dawning joy.

"Glad you agree with me."

"Don't I always?"

"Oh, eventually. Usually. Most of the time." Brief pause as he wriggles closer, thigh nudging between Edge's knees so he's stood well within his personal space, curling strong fingers around Edge's hands, doubling their grip on the swing. "Do I get to kiss you properly now?" Leaning in without waiting for an answer, pressing him back, off-balance in the best possible way.

"I think that could be arranged-" and the end of his sentence is swallowed by the hungry mouth which swoops in to fasten on his, and he just has time for a happy little sound, satisfied and rich before he has to hook his legs around Bono in a last feeble attempt to stop himself from falling backwards, heels knocking hard into the back of Bono's calves, the shock of which sends both of them tumbling into the sand, impact knocking the breath out of them still, so that it's a moment before they can catch their breath, and another moment before either of them can stop the helpless laughter at the sheer ridiculous image they must present.

Edge shifts experimentally, fairly certain that nothing is broken and looks again at the man sprawled heavily on his chest, poking at his shoulder with one finger to emphasise his point. "You know, Bono, when you said you’d fallen for me... I didn't think you meant it literally."

An eyeroll and groan, and then Bono is shutting him up in the most blatantly shameless way imaginable, something which takes care of a good ten minutes and accompanies another five degree drop in temperature, until sense does eventually prevail and they move their games inside.

He does say smugly afterwards, though, that it makes the best 'first kiss' story he's ever got to tell.


End file.
